Roger and I get to the 36th street dead end just in time. Burwell and a friend, Mike Burin, are walking toward their car, wet suits unzipped halfway. It turns out that Burwell, 29, had been roped into surfing by Burin, 56; both are originally from Oregon. Burin has been coming to the area for nearly three decades as a smoke jumper stationed at Boise's National Interagency Fire Center. Burwell is in his fifth season of the same job—the gig has both men shuttling across the West each summer, and the wave was something Burin had been describing to his friend for years.
"The last one was 1999," Burin says. "I boogie-boarded it then."
With Burin's prodding, Burwell brought his surfboard along this year. The two had scoped out the wave the day before. Burwell recalled hearing about another surfer pulling a similar stunt on the Willamette River, in his home state.
"I thought I could crack the nut," he says. Burwell's typical weekend activities—rock climbing and mountain biking—were fun, but surfing made him ecstatic. "It's about as exciting as it gets."
This from a guy who makes his living dropping into raging infernos.
"Hey," Burwell says jokingly, "it's how I relax."
Relaxation in Boise is all about unexpected juxtapositions: firefighters surfing in rivers, rock climbers pulling themselves up sheer walls topped with cell phone towers, the yin and yang of the area's contrasting terrain and meteorologic variability. Sometimes those contrasts come at high speed, all in a single excursion.
Sweet Connie is a classic mountain biking drop-off trail. It takes two cars: one to drive nearly all the way up Bogus Basin Road to the ski area, about 7,000 feet (2,134 meters) above sea level, and the other to wait at the bottom, 4,000 feet (1,219 meters)below.
"But this isn't a free descent," Scott Van Kleek tells me, as we fill a cooler with Coronas and load the bikes onto his car. "There's going to be some work."
Van Kleek has been on Boise's mountain biking scene for more than 20 years. He's ridden nearly every trail within a 45-mile (72-kilometer) radius and even has a trail nicknamed after him, Scott's Trail, which is part of the town's official Ridge to Rivers trail network. Dave and I leave my rental car at a turnoff, and Van Kleek takes us up the hill. As we drive I can see the remaining snowy runs at the just closed ski area and a cover of lodgepole pines that yield, below, to pastureland and rolling hills. I can also see a few groups of mountain bikers making their way along the trail.
After winding up to the drop point, we unload our bikes and start down. Sweet Connie is challenging—especially at the higher elevations, where we have to pick through lingering snow and ice—and it's varied. The trail swoops and curves through forest before it enters open country, rolling up and down over green rises. We take a break at the transition area between the two terrain types, and I ask Van Kleek whether this trail, like so many other mountain biking routes in the country, is subject to battles over access.
"We have that here," he replies. But he adds that the opponents are different from those that bikers face in my home state of California. Instead of various user groups—hikers, bikers, equestrians—fighting over who gets to use a trail, Van Kleek says, "you have conflict over what's above and what's below."
It takes me a moment to realize what he means, but as I stare into the fields and notice cattle grazing, I understand. In Boise, controversy over trail access stems from the ubiquitous Old West (mining, ranching, forestry)–versus–New West (recreation, development) debate that tends to accompany urban flight into smaller western towns. As Boise transitions into a recreation-based economy, the traditional economic linchpins of the West become less important, even as thousands of locals still earn their livings in extractive industries. The section of the local paper that my friend Roger writes for is an accurate reflection of these two communities: On a typical outdoors spread, you'll find stories on both hunting licenses and river conservation. But perhaps because Idaho is a state that respects individualism—there's a classic Western live-and-let-live streak in almost everyone I meet—these conflicts rarely degenerate into angry name-calling, as they do in Los Angeles.
"Maybe that's because everybody understands what a special place this is," Van Kleek says.
For the next hour, we pedal along narrow jeep trails and rock edges, occasionally dodging cows (and cow pies). The dual-suspension bike I've borrowed keeps me from having to slow down, and by the time we get to the car, I have a full-blown case of Boise fever.
A live-and-let-live attitude and good outdoor access are powerful attractors. But knowing that a city is fun doesn't necessarily mean that it's easy to thrive there. A year ago Don Smith, 45, and his wife, Rose, 41, were living in Marin County, California, and commuting to San Francisco on weekdays. They moved to Boise in January after checking out several other towns—Salem and Portland, Oregon ("too small" and "too big," respectively), and Prescott, Arizona ("too old"). Their criteria were basic: short commutes, lots of outdoor activities, and enough like-minded community members to make the move a good one socially as well as professionally. When Don was offered a job at a Boise advertising agency, the couple decided to make the change, even though Rose hadn't—and still hasn't—found permanent work. The lower cost of living has, however, allowed her the luxury of spending time doing what she really wants to do: volunteering for local environmental causes.
After six months, the verdict is mostly positive. Don is thrilled about commuting ten minutes by bike to work and not having to drive hours to find a trail that isn't "overloaded with people." The Smiths love their new home—1,850 square feet (172 square meters), 1950s craftsman style, with four bedrooms—which cost a third of what a comparable property would in Marin. And their living situation makes them feel as though they have the room, and the right environment, to start a family.
But the move has also been a little lonely. There's a bit of Californication backlash going on in Boise, where the population has nearly doubled since the 1980s and has increased 4 percent annually in recent years. "The first thing people want to know is where you come from," Don says, "and being from California doesn't always play as a positive. People are really nice, but there seems to be a worry that the town will be repopulated beyond recognition." Fitting in hasn't been tough—but making friends has. "We miss our social relationships from the Bay Area," admits Don, "and we've only recently begun to realize that if we want to have anything like that here, we're going to have to take the initiative."
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